


Violence

by TheOtherCourse (kanevixen)



Series: Tom and Abigail Series [46]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Cheeky Abby, Cheeky Tom, Comedy, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Drinking to Cope, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5330186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanevixen/pseuds/TheOtherCourse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom’s girlfriend, Abigail’s reaction to seeing him as Caius Marcius Coriolanus at the Donmar Warehouse. After a few drinks, she shares her response with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violence

**Author's Note:**

> _‘Abby, where are you, darling? – T xx’_

_‘Drowning in a pitcher of overpriced sangria, but I’m starting to think it was worth the expense. – Abby xoxo’_

_‘Tell me where you are, baby. I’ll come to you. I’d like to go for a swim in that sangria – T xx’_

_‘Are you in one piece? – Abby xoxo’_

_‘Of course, baby. – T xx’_

Abby sent a picture of the restaurant and address of where she was in Covent Garden, a quick walk from the theatre. Keith, security extraordinaire, offered to walk with me or drive me there to ensure that I wasn’t followed, which I summarily declined. I could be stealthy when I needed to be, and I fancied the walk. I pulled my hood over my head and adjusted my scarf to over my lips, kept my head bowed, my shoulders slouched for a quick walk to my girl and my nightcap.

Abby was huddled in a tiny table in the back with a basket of bread that she was picking at absently and the famed pitcher of alcohol and fruit. I went to her immediately and kissed the crown of her head, studying her closely. She was clutching the sangria like her pick duvet. I lowered myself into the chair across the small table from the woman holding the pitcher of sangria like a life raft. “Is that pitcher number one or pitcher number two, Abby?”

“Who’s counting?”

“Are you sharing?”

“With boyfriends that don’t emotionally compromise me, yes. With you, no.”

“Am I being punished?”

“Do you deserve otherwise?”

I lifted one eyebrow at Abby’s indignant mood. Alcohol usually made her a happy Abby, but this mood was different. Reaching across the table, I inched the glass pitcher from her grasp, pleased that she didn’t fight me on it. She wasn’t truly angry with me. I smiled to myself and decided to play along with her. “I emotionally compromised you, baby?”

A piece of bread she’d been picking at sailed past my head by a wide margin. A giggle bubbled from my girl across the table. “That was meant for your head, you talented, arrogant fuck.”

Smirking at her insult knowing that she meant it as an affectionate jab, I asked, “Did I compromise your aim as well?”

“I’m holding you responsible.”

“Is this about the play? Did you see it?” I asked conversationally, pouring myself and her a glass of the fruity alcoholic beverage. While my eyes were focused on pouring the liquid, another piece of bread whizzed past my head. “Your aim’s getting worse, Abby. You may want to give up the alcohol or trying to hit me with food.”

She lobbed a piece of fruit at me, but again, missed. “I’m mad at you,” she stated plainly.

“I get that. Do you want to tell me why?”

“You made me cry.”

“Are we discussing the play now? Can we go back to the talented part?”

She narrowed her gaze on me, clutching her alcoholic lifeline in her hand. She downed a big gulp. “Do you really need your ego stroked, Hiddleston?”

I half shrugged, “Among other things.”

I ducked another piece of fruit aimed at my head. “I think you’re stuck on the arrogant part,” complained my girl, squinting daggers at me.

“Or the fuck part…”

She tsked and rolled her eyes so far that she nearly fell over backwards. After a few moments of silence, her attention on the fruit on bottom of her glass, she spoke softly, “The play was sad, Tom.”

I could see the darkness of the play in the corners of her eyes and the downward pout of her mouth. She’d been crying, and that tugged at something deep inside me. I hated seeing or knowing that my girl was upset, a dark cloud of doom sat heavily inside my gut. Pushing aside the teasing from a few minutes ago, I quietly said, “Abby, my sweetheart, you knew what was going to happen. We read the play together.”

“Oh, I knew!” She stated loudly, startling herself. “I knew but I didn’t know, you know?” Tipsy Abby and her mind bending logic. My adored girl blew a raspberry into her empty glass, having downed another glass. I couldn’t be sure if she was angry for reaching the bottom of the pitcher almost singlehandedly or if she was still annoyed with me, probably both.

“Abby, come here, baby,” I tenderly commanded.

Her big rounded eyes scanned me with perusal, her expression unreadable as she got to her feet to come to me. Leaving her empty glass behind, she rounded the table. I placed my glass on the tabletop in favor of holding her hips, leading her into a sideways seated position on my lap. I guided her hands to my face to cup my cheekbones in her palms laying my hands over hers. I met her gaze, drawing her full attention to me. “I’m still in one piece, baby.”

Her eyes glazed over as her brain reconciled what she saw. The half-drunk woman stared at me for a long moment. She knew theatre was acting, but the alcohol was playing with her logic. “The play, Coriolanus, was really sad,” she repeated.

Her indignation drained from her face with my touch on her. She sighed, her shoulders sagging as she seemed to relieve herself of the tension from experiencing Coriolanus. “You disappeared on stage tonight, Tom. It was you, but it wasn’t you.”

Sincerely, I murmured, “Thank you, my Abigail.” The humility surprised her, her blue eyes widened slightly.

In answer, she leaned down and left a brush of her lips on mine tenderly. She knew how much her praise meant to me. Earning her approval was monumental for me.

“I don’t like to see anyone suffer like that, emotionally or physically. The… desperation, the conflict of being afraid for your life at the responsibility of your son or husband or father and the love for that man…” She shook her head, trying to brush off the tragedy of the play and the impact it had on her. “But the bleeding, strung up by the ankles, seeing you, but not you… it was violent and traumatic. Absolutely brutal and no amount of reading would’ve prepared me for seeing you  _but not you but you_  twitching and writhing like that. It was vicious.”

I ran my hand over her hair in my signature way, soothing her troubled mind. My Abby had a huge heart and knew compassion more than anyone else I knew. The brutality and the blood would hit her more than anyone else. “But I’m okay, Abby.”

She stroked my cheek gently. “But you cried too. That destroys me.” She traced the tracks of my tears where she saw them not an hour ago.

“My beautiful girl…”

She laid another kiss on my lips again, another soft sweet sign of affection. Our eyes locked together once more as she calmed herself.

A little while later, she whispered conspiratorially, “I blame Luke.”


End file.
